


vital

by snowfiregirl21



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Collins Is A Soft Man, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Who Just Needs Some Goddamn Affection, as in from dunkirk so i mean just know that when you go in, implied collins/farrier, it's implied that collins and peter had a lil smth smth when they got back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 03:02:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11682681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowfiregirl21/pseuds/snowfiregirl21
Summary: "All of Collins freezes up, his joints, his limbs. It’s like he’s back in his Spitfire, crashing down into the waves. He’s so close, so close he can taste the oxygen but the oxygen won’t reach him. He can’t breathe, but he can’t draw attention to himself so he just hunkers down as Peter passes him. After he forces himself to drag in a few shaky breaths, digging his fingernails into his palms, biting the inside of his cheek, he pushes himself up off of the seat and begins to walk towards Peter."collins comes back to thank peter and his father for saving his life





	vital

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for any typos its 1 am, i have a migraine i'm so fucking sorry, also tenses are a bitch

The pier. Not one from his home. Not one on Dunkirk. Just a normal pier in a normal village. A few boats are tied up on the dock, and Collins is just sitting on a bench, trying to find a kind-faced boy in an oversized sweater. A man, now, he supposes. It’s been a few years, maybe he’s even outgrown the sweaters. The kind of sweater that gave Collins hope when he was pulled out of his Spitfire, when he was on that boat trying to save as many men as possible, when he was on his way home. He still thinks about that sweater and the person who wore it, sometimes. It brings him comfort when he’s in the air, when he’s reminded of how the one thing that used to bring him comfort is officially gone. Farrier, a prisoner of war, was just confirmed dead, a letter read. All of those fucking words and not one person could tell him what Farrier’s last were. _Best of luck, Collins_ rang through his head day in and day out. He’d be swooping and turning and firing and he’d think “best of luck, Collins” and feel re-energized, ready to take on the whole of the Axis powers.

Collins shakes his head. Here he is, expecting Peter to not have changed at all when he was just a boy five years ago, yet he himself still looks the same. Collins had refrained from wearing his RAF uniform due to being on leave and not wanting unnecessary attention. He was, however, still wearing a blue button down shirt and a firmly knotted tie with his slacks and boots, hair trying its best to stay neat.  He may be on leave but is nevertheless a representation of the force. He just can’t shake that off no matter how hard he may want to. It’s noted in his dress, in his posture, in the way he is never fully relaxed, always on alert.

The harbor is mostly quiet for a weekday; since the war’s ended the days have all blurred together. Collins figures he’s been sitting there for a mere thirty minutes when he hears the wood of the dock creaking and turns his head towards the source of the noise. He’s actually there. Young Mr. Peter Dawson. Older now. Hasn’t changed much, physically, still tall and lanky, still a kind face.

Collins freezes up, his joints, his limbs. It’s like he’s back in his Spitfire, crashing down into the waves. He’s so close, so close he can taste the oxygen but the oxygen won’t reach him. He can’t breathe, but he can’t draw attention to himself so he just hunkers down as Peter passes him. After he forces himself to drag in a few shaky breaths, digging his fingernails into his palms, biting the inside of his cheek, he pushes himself up off of the seat and begins to walk towards Peter.

He reaches him and extends a hand out. “Afternoon.”

Peter looks back at him, eyes just staring into Collins’ own at first. Recognition dawns on his face and instead of taking Collins’ hand and shaking it, he grabs it and pulls Collins into a fierce hug. Unfamiliar with this kind of physical affection since Farrier… disappeared, he is left in a state of shock, awkwardly standing there, unmoving. Peter pulls away just as Collins was about to reciprocate, put his arm around Peter’s neck, hand on his back.

Peter steps back, two hands on Collins’ shoulders, Collins willing him not to drop them. Peter drops them.

“Well if it isn’t the brave young RAF pilot who just so happened to fall in front of our boat!” Peter exclaims, glee clear on his face. “How have you been? How did the war treat you?”

Collins notes he’s not explicitly mentioning Farrier for which he could not be more grateful. There’s obviously no way Peter could know what really happened, but he appreciates the discretion he practices. Collins clears his throat of any emotion trying to force its way up there and says “I’m alive aren’t I? Sometimes you just have to survive.”

Peter nods, a sympathetic expression on his face. “I joined the Navy,” he supplies without any prompting. At a smile from Collins he continues. “My dad got pretty bad a year and a half after I was put in. We still don’t really know what it was, but they gave me a compassionate discharge for ‘extenuating personal circumstances.’ I’m not complaining because I don’t think I could’ve lived with myself if I’d been on the sea when he died, y’know? I just can’t help but feel like a failure for leaving my brothers behind. Again.”

Collins stays quiet. Sometimes there just aren’t the kind of words that are the salve to somebody’s aching soul. He’s shaken out of it by Peter placing his hand on his shoulder again. “Would you like to go see my dad? He’d love to see you again,” and Peter smiles reassuringly, as if Mr. Dawson hadn’t gone back in time when he saw Collins come up from below deck.

When Collins voices these concerns to Peter he shakes his head and says that hey, Collins isn’t wearing the uniform, right? Then calm down, it shouldn’t be too bad of a shock.

On their way to the Dawson’s home, it’s like Peter can’t shut up. It’s as if he’s been holding in all of the stories until he met Collins again, until he could talk to someone else who’d _been there_ . Collins doesn’t complain about it but he also doesn’t say much. He nods at appropriate times, inserts a “wanker” here or there when Peter makes a comment about his commanding officer in the Navy, and surprises Peter and himself when he outright laughs a few times. By the time they reach the Dawson’s home, Collins feels like it hasn’t been five years since he’s seen Peter, like they’ve only just arrived back from Dunkirk, as if they’ve picked up right where they last saw each other. When that soldier had asked _“where the hell were you?”_ and Collins was hoping to God that Peter hadn’t heard it; it was bad enough Mr. Dawson had. When Collins had departed the boat and Collins could feel Peter’s eyes on him as he walked away. It’s like nothing had changed and that _terrified_ him. He hadn’t even known Peter for that long, there’s no explanation for why he felt so comfortable with him.

As they arrived at their destination and Peter led him through the door, Collins closing it behind them, he took in his surroundings. Windows, doors, fragile items, family photographs. A boy who looks like Peter does now is standing beside Mr. Dawson and Peter in a frame on the fireplace and Collins realizes it must be Peter’s brother.

He’s jolted out of a state of shock when he hears Peter yell for his dad to come to the family room. Peter looks at Collins with a small smile. “You’re gonna make his day, I’m tellin’ you.”

Collins nodded and held his hand up. “Fingers crossed, aye?”

Peter grinned. “Fingers crossed.”

The soft pad of slippers? socked feet? was the only thing that let them know there was anyone on their way. Collins stood up straighter, as if that were even possible, noticing Peter looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “Well, Peter? What is it that you’ve made me come down here for then?” Peter can’t even say anything, he just tilts his head towards the corner Collins is standing in.

Mr. Dawson’s quizzical expression morphs into several things at once. Shock, confusion, sadness, and great joy if the sudden movement from the old bloke meant anything. Quicker than Collins thought possible, Mr. Dawson had crossed the room and was cupping Collins’ face, pulling him in for a hug. The tears from Mr. Dawson’s cheeks seep into Collins’ shirt and he couldn’t even be bothered to care. This time he doesn’t hesitate, he won’t lose this opportunity at human contact, he immediately wraps his arms around Mr. Dawson and just fucking melts. He doesn’t mean to, he tries his best to stay upright, but he just leans into the touch of a loving father, knowing it’s been too damn long since there’s been one. Collins sees Peter pressing his thumb to his eyes and Collins closes his own in return, gripping tightly to Mr. Dawson, knowing he’ll have to release him soon.

Sure enough, Mr. Dawson pulls away and claps Collins on the back. Collins smiles and fuckin _giggles_ as he’s trying to discreetly wipe away his own tears, but someone in bloody America could see the tear tracks staining his face.

Mr. Dawson puts his hand over Collins’ and gently says, “son, you don’t have to do that.”

That did it. That gentle reminder that he can fucking cry if he wants to, there isn’t a war going on, he can afford to cry for a second, a few minutes even. The warm tone of a father who’s likely hurting just by looking at Collins but is still accepting and trying to help him. The dam inside of Collins breaks and Collins’ knees buckle along with it and it’s like everything that’s happened since Dunkirk, since the air, since the sea, since the beach Farrier was apprehended on…. it’s as if it’s all coming to light and he just needs it to evaporate off of his shoulders.

Collins falls to the floor, lighter than he would’ve had he been by himself, but still a hard fall nonetheless, what with Mr. Dawson and Peter trying to break it for him but unable to’ve seen it coming.

 _He’s brought back at once to that first soldier who practically spat his words at him,_ “where the hell were you?” _when all he could think of on the train home was_ FarrierFarrierFarrier. _He’d had to fight to get on that train; when those men saw him in his RAF uniform, looking as if he’d barely left his aircraft, they teamed up and tried to keep him from boarding. They didn’t succeed because a conductor took pity on Collins and dragged him up the stairs and through a small compartment where there was barely enough room for him to sit. Collins didn’t complain; he knew he was lucky to have even gotten on the train at all. The cramped quarters reminded him of being trapped in his Spitfire, left to the mercy of God. Collins just sat where he was told the entire ride home. Sometimes when it got too hard to breathe he’d think of Farrier and how during training when one or the other of them would panic in the air and they would help each other calm down. Breathe in, hold for three counts, breathe out. Repeat. Repeat. RepeatRepeatRepeat. He was back in the air the day after his return to England. A new leader. A new partner. Same war._

Collins’ heaving breaths destroy the silence in the cozy room. Peter tentatively places his hand on Collins’ shoulder, remembering how the other man had leaned into it before, just wanting to ground him somehow. He chuckles and says “I’m trying to ground a goddamn pilot,” and Collins’ is so caught off guard he fucking _laughs_ and, God, if that mildly hysterical sound isn’t absolute bloody music to Peter’s ears.

Collins shakes his head, amazed by these men. These brave, _civilian_ men, who risked their lives for him. All he did was almost drown.

Peter lays his hand on Collins’ and hesitates before squeezing. “I want you to tell me about something. Just to keep you talking until your breathing returns to normal, yeah? What’s the most recent thing you’ve read, mate? Have you gotten around to reading _Animal Farm_ yet? It’s a fairly recent release, but-”

“Farrier. My best friend, the other pilot you saw that day? I—” Collins clears his throat. “Sorry, I just received word that he was— he was killed after being a prisoner of war for four years.” A sharp inhale from Peter next to him and a quiet sigh from Mr. Dawson sets Collins’ fear off again as he runs his fingers through his hair, tugging it, trying to feel, trying to breathe.

He can see Peter looking at him, at his hair, a haphazard mess unbefitting of a Royal Air Force pilot. He pulls his hand down, entangling it with his other, twisting at his fingers, wringing God knows what out of them, apologizing for God knows why.

Peter just stares at him and asks why he’s apologizing, receiving a shrug, a minute movement from Collins, looking like he wants to be anywhere else than under Peter’s keen eye.

Mr. Dawson looks between them and says he’s got to run out to get more tea. He grabs his coat and once the door closes behind him Peter hesitates and then says, “the night we got home. The soldier. The one who asked where you were?”  
Collins freezes. Peter accepts it as an answer. “He was dead wrong and you fucking know it. Farrier fucking knew it too. Most, if not all of those men, honestly wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you. I know that man has probably stuck with you since then because God knows I can’t get George’s voice out of my head. I’ll _never_ get his voice out of my head. He was my best friend and I fucking lost him at that hellhole just like you lost Farrier. I’ll never be able to unhear that soldier ask if he was going to be okay, the regret and exhaustion clear in his voice. That man had just been through hell and I know now how hard it must’ve been for him, harder still knowing he injured an innocent boy. I haven’t fully forgiven him, but I _understand_ him.

“Collins, you— you fucking saved us. You saved them. You were a vital role to the survival of those men, and I need you to know how much you mean to me,” Peter trails off, his voice breaking.

Collins’ fingers are shaking as he tentatively touches Peter’s shoulder. “You and your father saved my life and I’m so grateful to you; I’ll never be able to pay you back. You saved those men too, Peter, you were hauling them up into the boat, and you were so fucking brave.”

Peter rests his head on Collins’ shoulder. “I thought I was supposed to be the one cheering you up.”

Collins tenses, not wanting to cause Peter any discomfort. “I’m older than you, I’ve had a longer go of it; I’m practiced in making people feel better.”

Peter chuckles, a wry, bitter sound. “It doesn’t mean you have to be the strong one all the time. It’s okay to let someone else take care of you.”

At the end of his statement he lifts his head off of Collins’ shoulder and gently presses his lips to his cheek. A short kiss, his lips whispering “I can go make some tea if you’d like to go upstairs and wait for my dad to get home,” against Collins’ mouth.

Collins’ lips twitch and he looks away, eyes blinking rapidly, and Peter can distinguish the obvious signs of not wanting to be seen in a vulnerable state, despite his previous breakdown, and looked away to give him his privacy. Then Collins turns around, a bright smile and a few tear tracks on his face. Softly, “That sounds lovely.”

As Peter stands up and begins to prepare the tea, he thinks of the last thing his older brother had said to him before he left for the war. _“No matter what kind of hell the world may throw at you or those around you, you must remember: compassion is vital. Practice it. Employ it. You never know who may need some.”_

**Author's Note:**

> yo ho ho and a bottle of rum  
> i've a shitton of anxiety about posting this so thank you for reading ! but feel free to come yell @/with me about dunkirk or any of the lads on twitter @ docmccoys or tumblr @ bookfreakandfandomgeek whatever works best for you
> 
> im kind of constantly yelling about this. so. free my friends by talking to me !


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